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The Whistle

Each night round about
This hour, round
The black spaces
Between one exhaust
And another I hear
The one whistle

It communicates to each
Night thief and star-gazer
Each soft hair
Embezzled from the cold.
The weary old
Mutt chases sounds.

The fox staking rubbish bins
Senses dog like a sharp pin
Slinks at the pitch
His fearless feet twitch
As the ghost passes
Beneath the silver birch

An invisible owl floats with
A close feather to earth
And its guttural slumber
And the man's foot beat
Creeps upon the plot
Upon undisturbed ashes

The mute red-bricks
Shudder minute echos
To his sub-sonic shrill
Home-coming. Stares
Prick from the end
Where bats plunder ceilings

The man treads softly
Moving his shadow on
Like magic. His call
To the sniffer makes
A legacy to the night
His curling lips

© David Incoll 2001

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Copyright by David Incoll 2001